


19th Nervous Breakdown

by CitrusVanille



Series: Nerves Arc [1]
Category: McFly
Genre: Kissing, M/M, stage fright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-29
Updated: 2008-05-29
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: Dougie has a bad case of stage-fright before an interview.





	19th Nervous Breakdown

“Of fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck –” Dougie chants steadily under his breath, eyes half closed, bouncing erratically on the balls of first one foot and then the other in a rather pathetic parody of a theatre warm-up exercise he’d heard Tom talk about once. He’s standing alone in the single toilet attached to the greenroom of some television studio or other – he honestly can’t remember which at this point, the words ‘live,’ ‘camera,’ and ‘interview’ being the only things that ever actually manage to stick in his brain, what with the flashing red warning lights they always seem to be stuck in drowning out everything else – and he’s not sure he’ll be able to force himself through the doorway this time when the time comes. He feels ill, and the bouncing should be counterproductive, but it’s somehow the only thing that’s keeping him from being sick all over the place – something about the adrenaline from the motion suppressing the nausea just enough to control the response, at least, that’s what Harry said last time he caught Dougie hopping like a maniac, but as he’d proceeded to laugh his arse off afterwards Dougie’s not entirely sure he believes him, and as he doesn’t fancy having his bandmates take the piss just now, he’s locked himself in where they can’t see him.

“Nervous?” a voice asks from behind him, and Dougie whirls mid-bounce with what might be a sound too high-pitched to be classed as anything more dignified than a girly shriek, and topples over into the sink.

Danny grins at him. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, though he looks more amused than apologetic, and the flathead screwdriver in his left hand is rather incriminating.

Dougie’s still staring at him, eyes too wide over the hand that’s clapped to his mouth, his other hand half-supporting his weight – which is currently lodged mostly in the bowl of the sink, his feet hanging several dozen centimeters off the floor.

“Tom said to tell you five,” Danny explains, tone as calm as if he sees people falling into sinks all the time, though his grin is practically swallowing his face.

“Five?” Dougie squeaks through his hand, and, not bothering to try to fix his voice – he has other problems just now – “Five _minutes_?”

“Yep.” Dougie’s not sure how it is possible for a human being to grin that widely without splitting his cheeks open. “Need some help getting out of there?”

“No,” Dougie manages to sound slightly more like the young man he knows he’s supposed to be rather than the six-year-old girl he feels like. If he hooks both of his hands over the edge of the sink to keep it from cutting into his thighs, it’s really not all that uncomfortable where he is. “I’ll just stay here until the. The – you know – is over.”

“The interview,” Danny supplies helpfully.

Dougie flinches. “Yes – that.”

Danny’s grin shrinks down to something much more human. “Dougs – you okay?”

Dougie blinks at him. He knows Danny isn’t really as dumb as most people tend to think, but at times like this, it’s hard to believe. “I’m sitting in a sink,” he points out. “Locked in a fucking toilet – well, no,” he corrects himself, “I thought I was locked in a toilet, but I guess not – and I’m not at all sure I’m not going to be sick in a disgustingly violent way. Together, I think that qualifies as not okay.”

The grin dims another few watts. “Is it still really all that bad?”

Dougie blinks again.

“I mean,” Danny’s grin is almost gone, now, and Dougie wonders if he should start to worry, “it’s just an interview. We’ve done tons of them. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Just sit there and look, well, you know.”

“No,” Dougie says. “I don’t know. And it’s just an interview to you. But it’s fucking _cameras_ and _strangers_ who want me to answer fucking _questions_. And the fucking, fucking _lights_ –” he groans and sinks down a little in his sink. It makes a noise that doesn’t sound particularly comforting.

“You should probably get out of there,” Danny suggests, and, “You don’t mind cameras and strangers and lights when we’re performing on tour.”

“I’m playing,” Dougie tells him, trying not to sound too _isn’t that obvious?_ because, clearly, it isn’t. “And moving. More important things to think about than all the fucking people and the damn cameras in my face. Not like I’m _not_ fucking nervous. You’ve seen me. I’m just – distracted.”

Danny regards him for a long moment, face twisted a bit like he’s thinking. Dougie thinks, rather uncharitably – not that he’s in the mood to care – that it looks like hard work.

“Tom will kill you if you skive,” Danny says at last.

Dougie groans and bangs his head back against the tiles, ignoring the ominous creak that comes from the sink underneath him. Danny’s right, of course, but, barring Tom’s inevitable wrath, Dougie would much rather take his chances with the sink than the interview.

“Maybe I can help,” Danny continues, and Dougie starts – eliciting another dangerous protest from the sink – and wonders how Danny got so close without him realizing it. “Come on.”

“What?” Dougie twitches away when Danny reaches out a hand.

“Five minutes is probably just about up, and if Tom has to come in here to get us, I’m leaving you on your own, so come on.” Without waiting for a reply Danny bodily picks Dougie up out of the sink and puts him back on the floor, steadying him as he scrabbles to get his feet under him again.

“But I –” Dougie attempts to dig his heels in as Danny starts to pull him towards the door, but, between the smooth tiles on the floor and Danny’s unyielding strength, it’s rather useless.

“Come on,” Danny repeats. “I think I can help. Trust me.”

“Fuck,” Dougie says. “Trust you. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Tom’s just outside the door to the toilet, and Harry’s already waiting for them in the hall outside the greenroom. “You okay?” Tom asks, giving Dougie a quick once-over.

“Aces,” Danny replies before Dougie can even open his mouth. “I’ve got him.”

Tom looks like he’s considering more questions, but there’s a dinging sound coming over the greenroom’s PA system, so he just gives Dougie another piercing look, says, “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” and follows Harry.

Dougie’s stomach twists and he bites into his lip, wanting nothing more than to flee back to the toilet and lock the door properly this time – with the chain as well as the bolt – but Danny’s still got one of his stupid, massive hands wrapped firmly around his wrist, so Dougie has no choice but to trot along after him down the hall to the area immediately backstage of the recording studio.

There’s cheering coming from inside the studio, and one of the black-clad stagehands is already shooing Tom and Harry through the door. Danny abruptly turns and shoves Dougie roughly up against the wall.

“What the fuck –” Dougie tries to say, but there are lips pressed hard against his and a tongue in his mouth that’s definitely not supposed to be there.

Danny pulls away, that shit-eating grin back on his face, white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness.

“What the fuck –” Dougie tries again, but the words stick somewhere between his brain and his still-tingling lips, and all that comes out is a rather unintelligible noise that might be a squeak.

“Something besides the interview to think about,” Danny tells him, managing to smirk and grin at the same time.

Dougie tries yet again to say something – anything, really – but Danny hauls him away from the wall and propels him through the door before he can unstick his throat. And, really, maybe that’s for the best, because Dougie has no idea what to say, but, for the first time, the funny feeling in his stomach as he walks out in front of the cameras has nothing to do with stage-fright.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Title by the Rolling Stones.


End file.
